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Spirits Of The Dead By: Edgar Allan Poe

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Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb- stone;

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Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy.

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Be silent in that solitude, Which is not loneliness- for then

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The spirits of the dead, who stood In life before thee, are again In death around thee, and their will Shall overshadow thee; be still.

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The night, though clear, shall frown, And the stars shall not look down

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From their high thrones in the Heaven With light like hope to mortals given,

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But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem

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As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee forever.

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Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish, Now are visions ne'er to vanish;

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From thy spirit shall they pass No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

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The breeze, the breath of God, is still, And the mist upon the hill

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Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token.

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How it hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries!

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